


would you stitch me up or let the blood soak through

by p3trichor



Series: need your love, need your teeth round my organs [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Werewolves, Wolf Tylers That Small Your Mos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p3trichor/pseuds/p3trichor
Summary: They reach a clearing, a break between treelines, and Robby bounds up ahead but Tyler pauses, ears back. Any other time he’d follow. All the times in Juniors they’d run miles and miles at night and wake up in unfamiliar towns, having to Uber twenty miles back home. But now Tyler has a reason to go back. A reason to not get tangled in whatever barbed wire fences or shards of glass that he comes across. An important boy who’s going to sit awake on that deck with a lukewarm mug of coffee and an armful of blankets and a first-aid kit he won’t admit to having on hand, just in case.Tyler Bertuzzi is a werewolf and Dylan Larkin is his very-human captain.
Relationships: Tyler Bertuzzi/Dylan Larkin, Tyler Bertuzzi/Robby Fabbri/Dylan Larkin
Series: need your love, need your teeth round my organs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662985
Comments: 11
Kudos: 148





	would you stitch me up or let the blood soak through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penaltyboxed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penaltyboxed/gifts).

> yes i am drunk and sad abt the NHL suspension no i did not edit this before posting yes i am going to write a TKPats werewolf oneshot to add next to this series yes this is all isabels fault. did you get my worm?

Tyler only knows blood and pine and broken glass during moons in Detroit, waking up with pine tar sticky between his fingers and a pounding ache through every single muscle. It makes him miss his woods at home, the long stretches of dirt road and trees and nothingness, here there’s too many campsites and discarded bottles and firepits to trip over, too many humans that still feel too close even at a two mile distance.

He always finds his way back to his truck at least, though, the hot and oily scent guiding his aching body back and mustering up the last of his night’s strength to jump up into the open bed and tuck himself under the blankets there. It’s not that he prefers to take his shifts alone but it’s routine by the time he’s signed to the Red Wings and it’s hard to keep in touch with the other wolves who get drafted out elsewhere, anyway. And besides, it could be worse. He’s heard of how other players cope with their shifts, knocking themselves out with drugs or locking themselves in hotel rooms or fighting, hunting. Ovie’s deer count was up to 30 the last Tyler heard, anyway. And even if he wanted to take a more violent route it’s not like he  _ could _ , he knows the whole league is waiting with bated breath for the second Bertuzzi wolf in the league to maim someone or worse. And Tyler would be lying if he said he  _ hadn’t  _ woken up a handful of times with the tang of blood on his mouth, brick red crust stuck deep under his fingernails. Most times he tries to trace it back to the source and it’s never been anything, like, incriminating—a gutted and chewed up bass on the edge of a riverbank, a dead rabbit with a broken neck. But still. Maybe it’s better that he wakes up alone without anyone to see him wash the blood off.

It still sucks, though, driving the hour back into the city after a night of full sprints across the nature preserve. He usually has to sit in his car at dawn for an hour before he’s fully back in his right human mind to operate a goddamn vehicle, when all his lingering wolf wants to do is stick his head fully out the window and feel vaguely carsick.

A stupidly sweet coffee always helps him come back around, a double shot dark chocolate mocha something that Tyler The Human can absolutely have and his wolf can’t makes him feel more solid in his own skin.

This is how he operated until the Red Wings. Drive out and pull off 52 well before the sun went down and eat something while prepping his truck, bed open and lots of fresh blankets and a waterproof duffelbag with clothes and sneakers and water for when he’d get back. Call his mom and tell her his shift is tonight, as if she doesn’t already know, as if she hasn’t raised him, and then drop into it. Stretch muscles he forgot he had. Find his way back to the truck and tuck in for a few hours before the sun comes up. And drive back into the city.

He’d always heard that the Red Wings were one of the most wolf-friendly teams in the league, which shouldn’t be surprising given the history of Yzerman and Fedorov and the era when the Wings were actually good, having tapped into some kind of human/wolf chemistry years ahead of any other team—but he’d still been shocked when they didn’t brought it up during his signing, stuck in a room with Yzerman and Blashill and a bunch of other suits, fully expecting the standard talking-to that most wolves get upon officially entering the NHL.  _ Give us your shift schedule, you’re legally obligated to submit to questioning from officials or authorities about your habits and any violence that takes place during and outside of games, you may shift outside your moon during the season only at the discretion of your coaches and administration _ …

Tyler’s sure that he signed those rights away at some point that day, anyway, but there was no talking-to. No lecturing. Not even the slightest whiff of  _ so your uncle and his hit on Moore right before his moon  _ accusations or probing. Just Yzerman shaking his hand and warmly welcoming him to the team.

*

Tyler and Filip are chasing pucks shot by Mo, skittering down the ice and body-checking each other into the boards in their fight to get to the puck first. Hronek as a wolf is handsome and fit compared to Tyler, Filips’ big paws spread out far on the ice when he drops into a deep bow daring Tyler to try and get the puck from him.

“Guys, c’mon,” Anthony shouts from the opposite end of the rink, patience running thin when he’s trying to practice and is relying on the two of them to actually bring back the pucks he sends down to them. Tyler is scrawnier than Hronek and darker, his missing front tooth reflected in this body too with a missing canine fang on his top jaw. He pounces on Filip and gets a mouthful of the scruff of his neck, tugging hard enough that the larger wolf yelps and drops the puck. Tyler nabs it and fully sprints back down to Mo with it just as Dylan is come down the tunnel.

“Are you—” Dylan starts before he sees Tyler and they both freeze, Tyler’s legs splayed out and ready to bolt. “Anthony!”

“What!”

“I told you Tyler’s going to break his  _ teeth _ on pucks, Tyler—” Dylan moves towards Tyler and makes a grab for him and Tyler goes to run but loses his traction, slipping and landing sideways on the ice with a  _ thud _ . He’s down long enough that Dylan is able to reach him, putting his full weight on Tyler’s side and prying his hands around Tyler’s muzzle.

“You are going to  _ break your teeth on these pucks _ —” Dylan tries reasoning with the wolf but Tyler just snaps his jaw around the puck harder until Dylan’s thumb—goddamn thumbs!—pokes it out from behind Tyler’s back teeth and it falls out his mouth.

Dylan picks up the puck and Tyler flops down onto the ice on his side and huffs a sigh, with Dylan ignores. “New guy,” he says. “Fabbri, from St. Louis.”

*

Tyler helps Fabbri move in and he hasn’t shut the fuck up since jumping the kid as soon as he got out of the car, like no time has passed between Juniors and now, like Fabbri hasn’t won a cup and Tyler’s not on the worse team in the league. Robby’s laughing, at least, that wide-mouthed smile that he’s never fully been able to hide despite his best efforts when he’s listening to Tyler. Helping Robby “move in” really turns out to mean getting his couch, bed, TV and Playstation set up and then sitting in lawnchairs playing 2K and spitting a pack of beers.

“So,” Robby says around the hiss of a new beer being opened. “Y’all don’t have a captain.”

“We do not,” Tyler confirms with a shrug.

“Do you have an alpha, then? You? Or Mantha, maybe?”

Tyler tries not to crack up laughing, swallowing his amusement down with a swig of beer. He forgets that other teams have, like,  _ structure  _ and shit, protocols for wolves and expectations for captains. So yeah, maybe Detroit is a little confusing; most teams by now have adopted captains who are also the most alpha-wolf types but there’s a rare few teams who have an alpha wolf personality who isn’t captain. Detroit, at the moment, has neither.

“Mo’s not a wolf,” Tyler reminds Robby who raises his eyebrows in response. “Really?”

“Yeah, man. He puts off the vibe really well though, doesn’t he?”

Robby frowns. “People talk about him like he is one. I would’ve sworn.”

Tyler shakes his head. “Nope, not a wolf. Just fuckin’ French.”

“You?” Robby asks, then, and Tyler shrugs. “I don’t want it, and I don’t think the league wants me to have it, either. Yzer’s gonna tap Dylan for the C.”

“Larkin?” Robby’s voice goes a note higher in surprise and something defensive at the back of Tyler’s throat prickles. “He’s not wolf, right?”

“No,” Tyler allows and Robby’s face crinkles in distaste? Surprise? “But he’s the best of us, Robby. Really. He takes us out for our shift.”

“What?” Fabbri’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and Tyler nods, waving a hand, “Yeah, he drives us out to Mo’s lakehouse or a preserve somewhere. Hronek, Perlini, Zadina and me. I’m sure you’ll be invited.”

Robby’s clearly still chewing over the notion of Dylan “Human” Larkin being captain but Tyler’s expression must tell him not to push it so instead he drops his beer can on the floor in exchange for his Play Station controller and starts another round.

*

Tyler’s wolf has always been wary of parking lots and asphalt ever since he was little and sliced open the pad of his front paw on a loose metal shard and couldn’t hold a hockey stick tight in that palm for a month. And before Dylan, he didn’t have any reason to venture into parking lots.

But this is some abandoned Costco parking lot in front of a treeline in San Jose and the only car in the lot is a navy Range Rover, idling under one of the streetlamps in the middle of the lot. There’s the muffled buzz of music and coffee coming from the car and Tyler can see the interior lights on from where he’s crouched at the edge of the trees. And then the car door opens and Tyler slinks low, belly to the ground with concern until he can smell him, the boy, the important boy stepping out on the car and dropping into a squat on the asphalt, one arm outstretched towards Tyler.

“Hi, bud,” Dylan coos once Tyler has crept closer and the moon is going down, now, less instinctual caution and more familiarity, his smell of clean laundry and grass and mint gum getting stronger as Tyler draws closer, tail wagging slowly and then faster once he’s in arms reach of Dylan. “Hi,” Dylan says again, soft, reaching out and flicking a few fingers over Tyler’s ear, testing his closeness, his allowances for contact. Tyler whines low in his throat and pushes his head into Dylan’s chest and Dylan breathes out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh of relief. He runs his hands over Tyler’s spine, his ribs, his legs, checking him over for wounds in a way that still feels new every time he does it. Prods gently at the scab forming over the tip of Tyler’s ear from his play-scrum with Fabbri last week. It’s a gentleness that Tyler’s never known and will probably never get used to, the exhale of relief that Dylan gives every time Tyler comes back to him. The new flutter of feeling in his wolf brain that reminds him about the boy in the parking lot waiting for him when he’s miles out deep in the woods. 

Dylan scratches behind Tyler’s ears and then stands to open the Range Rover’s trunk. The car is vibrating and warm, potato chips and coffee from where Dylan’s been waiting out their shifts for the better part of five hours now and he looks exhausted, always too anxious to nap when his boys are out in the woods during road games. Tyler takes a long minute to burrow into the pile of towels and blankets in the trunk and then huffs impatiently at Dylan. 

“I know, bud, I’m looking for them,” Dylan says but he unzips his sweatshirt and tosses it into the trunk between Tyler’s front paws. It’s not very long before both Filips and Brendan come slicking out from the treelines as well, snuffling their greetings into Dylan’s arms before curling up in the trunk with Tyler. They sleep the whole ride back to Detroit, piled on top of each other with their muzzles tucked against Dylan’s hoodie. By the time Tyler crawls into the backseat in boxers and wrapped in Dylan’s hoodie, there’s a steaming double chocolate mocha waiting for him in the cupholder.

*

He’d be lying if he said the moon doesn’t affect him and any player who claims that it doesn’t is a goddamn liar. Some are just better at keeping a handle on it, veterans with tried and true tactics to keep their bloodthirst under control but they all feel it. It’s impossible not to. 

Tyler keeps the violence at bay with touch, leaning hard into Dylan’s shoulder in the locker room and pressing his helmet to Bernier’s for a long embrace after practice. And usually it does the trick, lots of rough play-jostles from Zadina on the ice and Tyler wrestling Mo in his wolf form in the gym, Mantha’s forearms covered in bright red scratches and bitemarks and Tyler flopped onto his side panting by the end of their play-fights. 

He anticipated, maybe, that Fabbri being back on the ice with him would subdue the temper the moon gives him even more, the familiarity of a childhood pup back in his life, another body to press close to.

It ends up being the opposite. Tyler feels it at the back of his teeth during the morning skate, a bitter tightness like his teeth are too sharp when Blashill throws a particularly pissy fit at Dylan for not staying focused. Dylan catches Tyler’s eye and shrugs, really nothing new from Blashill. Tyler is more restless than usual after that, pacing back and forth in the locker room until Dylan comes over and reaches up, tugs a firm hand through Tyler’s hair and the touch grounds him, tucking himself into Dylan’s chest and inhaling deeply. 

And Tyler thinks he’s got a handle on it. Until the second period that night when Fabbri gets hit from behind by Calvert and driven head-first into the boards, coming up with his helmet askew and a bleeding nose. The crowd in the section closest is losing it but there’s no call, most of the action moving down the opposite end of the ice, and when Fabbri glides by Dylan on his way to the bench with his glove smeared with blood Tyler all but blacks out.His limbs are staticky when he flies down the rink and cross-checks Calvert hard into the glass. He hardly hears the whistle, hardly feels himself throw his stick down. Calvert’s eyes go wide, surely aware of the fact that he’s about to drop gloves with a Bertuzzi the night before a moon, and the moment of fear sends a shiver right through Tyler’s spine straight to his wolf. And his wolf wants flesh, blood, retribution, fear and who is Tyler to deny himself that. He’s vaguely aware of someone colliding with his back as he throws two furious punches--Mo, by the smell of him, by the feel--and he lets Tyler get one more good shot in before pulling him off Calvert. There’s a bleeding cut that splits open high on Calvert’s cheek that makes Tyler desperate and hungry, his teeth and hands feeling too sharp as Mantha wraps his arms fully around Tyler’s torso, towing him towards the bench.

“Fuck you, Calvert, fuck you,” Tyler’s shouting and it doesn’t feel like him at all, feels like he’s watching his wolf have a human mind instead of the other way around, scrambling to break free from Mantha’s steady grip on him and he only gets angrier when he realizes he can’t continue the fight, two of the refs surrounding Tyler now and working to herd him towards the penalty box, “Dirty fucking hit like that, hurt my fucking boy,  _ fuck _ you--”

“Tuzzi, enough, jesus,” and it’s Dylan, followed closely by Hronek, crowding Tyler at the edge of the rink and Fabbri is leaning over the bench. He’s still got a drip of blood down the center of his jersey and the sight of it makes Tyler struggle again against Mantha’s grasp until Dylan crowds in close, tucking a hand against the back of Tyler’s helmet. “I know, bud,” Dylan says softly and it’s the same voice he uses in the parking lot, same voice he uses in the mornings when Tyler’s brain is still fuzzy and he’s still relearning how to see colors again. “He’s okay, Robby’s okay. You did good.”

Tyler heaves a sigh so hard into Dylan’s shoulder that it’s almost a sob and the close press of his teammates calms him, for a few seconds, Dylan’s smell and Mo’s arms still around him bringing him back enough to fully understand what he’s done. 

And the refs certainly understand, too, because they’re both approaching Mo and Tyler with firm expressions but their body language is cautious and slow, approaching a feral dog to take him away and be put down.

Tyler doesn’t want to go but he knows if he resists anymore he’s risking a penalty worse than the cross-checking they call him for. The box feels like a cage, miles away from the rest of them and it takes everything in him not to just start whining like a wounded animal. He swallows down the urge and squeezes his eyes shut, counts to fifteen. Counts to twenty. By the time his ears stop ringing and his hands aren’t tingling the gravity of the fight fully settles in the center of his chest. That he made someone bleed. That someone made  _ Robby  _ bleed. He tries to push the inevitable media questions out of his mind, the headlines that’ll come from it, the two steps forward and two steps back for wolves in the league and their reputation for being violent. Every Avs player that skates by the box spares him a worried look, an animal pressed up against a fence who doesn’t want to bite but can’t help its instinct. Tyler feels sick with it by the time the box door opens and he skates the rest of his shift with his head down, avoiding eye contact with any of the other players until he’s able to retreat to the bench. He can feel Blashill’s eyes on him but Robby reaches Tyler first, grabbing him roughly by the back of the neck and knocking their helmets together. “You did good, you did so good,” Robby breathes and Tyler shakes his head, trembling. He knows that as soon as Robby lets go of his head he’s going to get yelled at by Blashill. Like two minutes alone in a cage wasn’t enough of a punishment. Like watching Robby bleed wasn’t enough of a punishment. 

Blashill stares hard at Tyler, who wants to all but crawl under the bench and go belly-up with shame, but Blashill must decide that now is neither the time nor place because he scrunches up his face and drops it, turning his back to pace down the other end of the bench. 

Tyler plays the rest of the game as politely as he fucking can and when they lose he’s the first one back down the tunnel to get to the lockerroom, feeling like he’s going to shake out of his skin. 

Robby finds him first, maybe by smell and maybe the weird unspoken pack instinct that kicks in right before a moon. Tyler’s sitting against a wall near the showers in sweats and one of Hronek’s sweatshirts, avoiding the media frenzy in the locker room at all costs. Robby crouches down and reaches over, tugs gently at a strand of hair that’s fallen over Tyler’s face and Tyler flinches at it. Doesn’t feel like he should be trusted to be this close to anyone right now, no matter how much he aches for it, but Robby knows what this is like. He sits down next to Tyler, keeping quiet and soft with his head down as he kicks a foot out and hooks his ankle over Tyler’s. It’s more than enough and too much all at once and Tyler clenches his jaw hard, willing himself to stay in this body at least until the arena clears out. 

He’s mercifully spared the attention of the press. He knows this because Dylan is the last one still in the locker room by the time Tyler finally emerges from the showers. Tyler lingers at the edge of the room. “I’m sorry,” he says. Not sure why. 

Dylan raises his eyebrows from where he’s sitting in Tyler’s stall and something about it makes his wolf shutter with love and protection and it takes a tremendous effort on his human end to not run across the room and plant himself in Dylan’s lap. “Don’t be sorry. We handled it. Media said that Konecny got ten minutes in Tampa tonight for fighting, too. So I guess it’s a rough one for you guys.” 

Tyler shuffles his feet. Doesn’t know what to say to that because every moon is rough, really, to feel like your body isn’t yours. Dylan’s watching him carefully but his expression isn’t pressed with worry like the referees or Blashill’s. Instead it’s the line of concern that creases between Dylan’s eyebrows, the same one that appears when Tyler slinks out of the woods, a look of wanting to check on him without pushing Tyler’s limits. “Do you wanna stay over?”

Tyler nods and Dylan stands up, holding out Tyler’s jacket and backpack for him. They have the next two days off and it’s always hard to tell if it’s intentional or not on the Leagues’ part, carefully selecting which players are going to be completely out of their minds on which given moons and giving those teams a break between games. Tyler’s thankful for it, anyway, climbing into Dylan’s truck and dozing off almost immediately in the twenty minute drive from the arena to Dylan’s place. The nap helps; he’s able to make eye contact with Dylan without wanting to go belly-up, exposed throat. 

“Do you want the couch? Or be with me?” Dylan asks. Meaning  _ do you need space or don’t you _ . 

“You.”

*

Tyler feels raw and vulnerable, buried under Dylan’s sheets with his face pressed into Dylan’s pillow while he waits for him to get out of the shower. He hates being this fucking needy, some forgotten part of him wishing he could go back to being a teenager who just dealt with the moons by jacking off and getting into fights. All the afternoons he’d come home with a black eye or bruised limbs from the games of street hockey with all the local pups just as an excuse to bleed out their bloodthirst. Because this feels...different, and dumb, that he can’t stand being alone in his captain’s bed or alone in the penalty box away from his boys. It’s stupid how warm he gets as soon as Dylan’s bathroom door opens and the man steps out in black boxers and his towel around his neck, steamy and smelling like orange and sandalwood. 

Tyler keeps very still while Dylan bumbles around his room getting ready for bed, getting his phone charger from his bag and turning on the television and throwing an extra pillow onto the bed. Tyler’s practically vibrating by the time Dylan climbs onto the mattress next to him, kicking his legs out and resting an arm behind his head. He’s got a puck-width of a bruise on his bicep from a blocked shot at practice. Tyler forces himself to look away, staring hard at the menu of shows on the TV screen. And then: “Dyl?” he asks, amusement cracking through every other feeling, “do you have every episode of The Dog Whisperer saved?”

Dylan blushes a deep red from his cheeks down to his chest. “Well, yeah,” he mumbles. 

Tyler’s fighting a losing battle to hide a grin. “Why, bud?”

Dylan looks like he wants to suffocate himself with a pillow and he huffs exasperatedly. “I don’t know! I wanted to learn about. Canine behavior, whatever.” 

Tyler cracks up laughing, curling towards Dylan with the movement until his forehead is pressed against Dylan’s shoulder. It’s the laugh that’s contagious so soon Dylan is laughing too, silent breathy huffs and he reaches up and buries his fingers in Tyler’s hair, scratching his knuckles firmly against his scalp and Tyler stills, pushing his head up gently into Dylan’s touch. 

“How’re you,” Dylan asks, tipping his head down to bury his face in Tyler’s hair and he always asks so soft, like it’s not his place, like Tyler isn’t whining for Dylan’s affection twenty-four-fucking-seven. Like a captain who is hyper-aware of the separation between them. “Maybe taking the night at Mo’s tomorrow is a good idea?” Dylan asks. Tyler nods and tucks his nose into Dylan’s neck just below his ear. Dylan’s pulse flutters, hot and fast and Tyler rests his open mouth against the skin there. Dylan’s breath hitches. “Keep you all safe, then. You can introduce me to Robby proper.” 

Tyler sinks his mouth lower onto Dylan’s neck, his pulse skipping against Tyler’s teeth. The contact makes Dylan go soft and pliant, sinking deeper into the bed so Tyler can sit up and straddle his lap. Something about the trust of it, Dylan on his back looking up at Tyler without any fear. Tyler reaches down and gently presses a hand to Dylan’s throat, just enough pressure to feel Dylan’s blood hammer through his neck faster. Tyler’s wolf who wants to get at the blood there, to open his throat and eat his heart if it means Dylan can stay his. Tyler himself who leans down and kisses him instead. 

Dylan kisses him back hard because this is how it goes, Tyler has trouble staying in the right brain this close to the moon and sex sometimes helps and sometimes it doesn’t. It’s hard letting himself get into it when he’s too worried he’s going to bite them until they bleed or worse but so far Dylan’s the only human who’s been able to keep up. The right amount of power to let Tyler do what he wants but with the guidance of a captain, of someone who wants them both safe and happy. Dylan lifts his hips, unsettling Tyler from their kiss. “C’mon,” his voice is rough but his hands are soft with the instruction, pushing his boxers off one hip and Tyler follows suit and pulls them off all the way. Dylan’s already half-hard, reaching down to jerk himself lazily while Tyler scrambles to kick off his own pants. 

Dylan shoves a pillow under his ass while Tyler fumbles for the lube and condoms in the nightstand drawer and this time it’s Dylan who lets out an impatient huff, spreading his legs further to knock Tyler’s knee with his thigh. The sight of Dylan spread out and waiting for him is almost too much all at once and Tyler takes longer than he needs to slick up his fingers before he leans forward and presses a finger into Dylan.

Dylan drops his head back to the pillow, mouth open as Tyler pushes into Dylan’s ass to the first knuckle and then the second. Dylan gasps and Tyler pauses for a second, wolf-brain instinct kicking in fear that it’s pain and he’s the one causing it and then Dylan wiggles, grinding into Tyler’s hand. “Don’t fucking  _ stop _ ,” he hisses and it’s said with enough force that Tyler is struck silent, for a moment, wolf-brain confused about how a human could have this much power over him. And then obedience that he can’t help: Tyler wastes no time fucking Dylan open with one finger and then two. Tyler drops down to his forearms and presses his face into the crease of Dylan’s hip, mouthing at the skin there that’s still shower-sweet before dropping his head lower to Dylan’s inner thigh where he’s muskier and warmer. Tyler noses at the pale and soft skin before he places a biting kiss there, sucking hard enough that Dylan whimpers above him and reaches down to knot a fist against Tyler’s skull. 

Tyler could stay like that all night, drunk on the scent of Dylan’s sweat and pre-come that’s leaking onto his stomach and Tyler moves upwards to kiss off the space below Dylan’s belly button, biting him there too. Dylan tugs Tyler’s head hard upwards, redirecting him and Tyler is dizzy with the demand of it, the haze of being bloodthirsty and wanting to please his boy. Tyler is so hard that it hurts and he lets out a low whine, feeling fuzzy and desperate. Dylan huffs a laugh. He pulls Tyler down for a kiss and then says, “Fuck me.” 

Tyler nearly blacks out with the verbal permission, nodding frantically and it takes him two tries to roll on a condom. He lines up with Dylan pushes in slow, feeling too hot and somewhere between his two bodies. His fingers, pressing hard enough into Dylan’s upper thigh to leave bruises, feel sharp and brittle. 

“Tyler,” Dylan says, pulling him out of his head. Dylan’s voice is strained but soft and Tyler’s eyes flick up to his. “I’m not gonna fucking  _ break _ .” He’s desperate but trying not to be, face beautifully pink and his hair pressed down onto his forehead. 

Tyler begins to move and Dylan’s breath hitches, one palm firm around the back of Tyler’s neck and the other jerking himself off in time with Tyler’s thrusts. His eyes are closed, the crease between his eyebrows deepeningwhen Tyler fucks into him harder. Tyler lifts Dylan’s thigh to get a better angle and that must do it, Dylan’s mouth dropping open and his hips bucking up into his fist. Dylan’s silent when he comes onto his own stomach, abs spasming and he clenches around Tyler’s dick with a gasp. It’s the whimper that Dylan lets out that sends Tyler over the edge of his own orgasm, a low whine that comes from the back of Dylan’s throat at the sensitivity of his dick and Tyler still pounding into him. Tyler drops his head onto Dylan’s chest when he comes, forearms shaky when he finally loosens his tight grip on Dylan’s thigh. 

Dylan scritches his knuckles through Tyler’s hair before untangling himself from underneath Tyler’s limbs. And just like that he’s tired, his wolf quieted down after a day of sweat and blood and too much contact and not enough all at once. 

*

Tyler sleeps for twelve hours but wakes up feeling like he hasn’t slept at all, wired and anxious with his moon only a handful of hours away. Some days he’ll spend the whole day in his wolf form just to make the required hours of it easier but today he wants to stay in this body in Dylan’s bed, his chest aching with the want of it. His wolf brain wishing it could have his human body for a few hours instead of the other way around. 

He pads out to the kitchen where Dylan’s making breakfast, a green smoothie and a skillet of bacon and eggs that makes Tyler’s stomach audibly grumble. Tyler goes over and presses himself up against Dylan’s back, burying his face in the nape of Dylan’s neck and mouths softly at the skin there. Dylan reaches a hand back and pats Tyler’s head. “Hi, pup,” he says, turning around and separating them by pressing a plate of breakfast into Tyler’s torso. It’s a nickname reserved for the moons and it makes Tyler want to melt to Dylan’s feet. 

Dylan has gotten really great at knowing when Tyler needs space and knowing when he needs touch on his moons and today he’s more clingy than not, Tyler’s feet slung over Dylan’s lap while he watches Dylan play 2K on Xbox. Tyler’s too restless to play, nearly four o’clock and getting dark and his wolf knows that they’re going to head to Mo’s soon, see the others, stretch muscles he hasn’t stretched in a few weeks at least. 

Dylan knows its time to leave when he calls Tyler’s name three times and Tyler doesn’t hear him, too consumed with pacing back and forth near the sliding door and debating whether or not going outside will help the prickles of static that keep sparking up and down his spine. 

Mo’s is only twenty minutes from Dylan’s but it feels like it takes hours, Tyler sticking his head out the passengers side window twice to numb his sense of smell that’s just heightened over the last few hours. Dylan’s car with its mint gum and sandalwood soap and the sticky sweet smell of cherry gatorade Hronek spilled in the backseat two weeks ago. Dylan next to him, one wrist hooked casually over the steering wheel and every gust through the open window next to him washing Tyler in his scent. 

Mo’s lakehouse opens up to two hundred acres of forest, a huge deck with a grill and a firepit and adirondack chairs in a semi-circle looking out over the lake and woods. It’s dusk when they get there and Tyler stays out on the deck while Dylan goes in to see who’s there, leaving Tyler’s duffel bag on the porch. 

Robby finds his way outside looking as strung out as Tyler feels, wearing a pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips and swimming in a long-sleeve shirt that smells like Mo. He hugs Tyler hard and tucks his face into Tyler’s shoulder and Tyler melts into it, Robby smells like the sleepy corn-chip scent of a puppy’s paws, running too-warm like Tyler and restless, some deeply-buried tremor that twitches through his arms as he pulls away from Tyler. 

“First shift here?” Tyler asks with a grin and Robby smiles back nervously. Tyler claps him on the shoulder. “It’s fun, I promise.”

“Mo’s got porkchops--” Dylan says as he steps out of the open sliding glass door to the deck and Robby stiffens, something akin to fear flitting across his features. Robby’s wolf has always been more weary than Tyler’s and Tyler can only imagine the stress now, unfamiliar woods with unfamiliar humans in a city he’s only just started to get used to. Tyler meets Dylan’s eye over Robby’s shoulder and Dylan physically shrinks, somehow, shoulders relaxing and face softening from his usual stern expression. “Mo’s got porkchops for the grill, later,” Dylan says again. Tyler leans forward, knocks his shoulder with Robby’s. 

Tyler feels more staticky the darker it gets, Dylan’s familiarity as a human losing focus and taking on his wolf’s recognition of him instead. The boy in the car under the streetlight. Boy with the towels and blankets in the trunk that smell like sunscreen and wet dog. The boy who holds out his arms disarmingly and says  _ hi, bud _ . The boy who gently pries open Tyler’s jaw when he’s chewing on a puck and who rubs his paws when he’s got chunks of ice stuck between his toe pads. 

Tyler and Robby are sitting waiting for it, Robby still swathed in his pajamas even tho he’s visibly shaking but Tyler is pacing and back forth, shedding an article of clothing with each pass by the patio table until he’s standing in the grass of Mo’s yard in his sweatpants. Robby’s still sitting on the deck steps watching Tyler with an expression caught somewhere between a puppy’s admiration and a human worried that he’s losing his grip. “Fabs,” Tyler says and jumps a couple times, grass still spongy and damp from the rain a few nights before and the cool, damp earth under his feet eases him a bit. Shakes himself loose and Robby rolls his eyes but grins, a habit Tyler’s had since they were in juniors, like a dog shaking itself dry. His wolf is right there and Tyler knows he’s only got another half hour, maybe, to be willingly human but he’s bored and feels safe and misses Robby’s wolf. Knows that Robby will only drop into it if Tyler does first. 

Tyler’s shift isn’t as painful as it used to be, when he’d only let himself change once a month when required. But his time on the Wings and Yzerman’s comfort--Yzerman’s  _ encouragement _ \--of wolves and their voluntary shifts have changed him. Less of a bleeding tear of flesh and crackling of bone and breaking of teeth and more of a stiff neck, a muscle gone long unused and stretched to a pleasurable kind of hurt. Tyler cracks his knuckles, pulls his hair into a bun and grins at Robby before he closes his eyes and falls into it, a sharp crack. 

Robby’s standing and shrugging off Anthony’s hoodie when Tyler shakes into his new skin. He drops into a low bow and wags his tail slowly in the air, like they’re fifteen again, Tyler alternating between playfully bared-teeth and a wolfish grin, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Robby falls into his wolf as he steps off the porch, one stair down and then a second and then dark brown paws landing in the muddy grass. Robby is shorter but more muscular than Tyler and Tyler’s ears perk up in surprise just before Robby barrels into him, taking them both to the ground with a shocked snarl. 

Tyler feels like a pup again, testing his teeth, his feet, learning a new body with an old friend. He’s gnawing on Robby’s ear, affection and dominance and missing him all rolled into one, when the door of the house in front of them opens.

Tyler only flinches at the harsh squeak of metal and glass but Robby has gone still and bristley underneath him, a noise caught between a whine and a growl at the two men who step out onto the deck.

Tyler whines back, pinning his ears back and ducking under Robby’s chin to lick him reassuringly, belly low but tail wagging. They’re friends, they’re good and they have food and they’ll keep us safe, they’ll take care of us, but Robby seems unconvinced. Muscles tensed and eyes trained sharply on the humans. 

“Hi, bud,” one of them says. He’s Tyler’s whole heart. He stays on the deck but crouches down and Tyler whines, wanting to greet him but not wanting to leave Robby vulnerable. The taller man is holding a plate and opens the metal grill. The sharp sting of smoke makes Robby sneeze next to Tyler but it’s soon followed by the smell of meat, warm and bloody and bitter. 

Dylan comes down the deck and sits on the last stair, hands open and palms-up on each knee. Tyler whines and licks Robby once more before he bounds halfway towards the human and flops onto his back and Dylan laughs but doesn’t move. Keeps his eyes trained on Robby, whose head is still ducked low to the ground but his ears have perked forward at the sound of Dylan’s laugh. Something grounded and familiar about it in the forgotten corners of their skulls. 

“Hi, bud,” Dylan repeats, softer this time, snapping his fingers once. Tyler’s too weary to go onto the deck but he rolls to lay on his stomach, paws spread wide in anticipation of playing but Dylan’s gaze is fixed on Robby. 

Robby’s nose twitches and he takes a few steps forward and then another couple until he’s standing next to Tyler and Tyler huffs. “Oh, Bert,” Dylan sighs and his eyes flick over to meet Tyler’s briefly before looking back to Robby. “He’s handsome.”

Tyler wags his tail in agreement and Robby lowers his head again but creeps forward until he’s in arms length of Dylan. Dylan reaches out and flicks a gentle finger over the tip of Robby’s ear. Waits a few moments and then Robby pushes forward, bending his head into Dylan’s open palm. 

“There he is,” The man by the grill says and Dylan pats Robby on the side, gentle, and then sits back with his elbows on the step behind him. Tyler moves to climb the deck but Robby whips around and grabs Tyler by the scruff of the neck, comfortable enough now to roughhouse and he drags Tyler back out onto the lawn. 

They run, Tyler chasing after Robby and then at some point it switches to Robby chasing him. They run and run until they can’t smell the grill anymore, until the grass starts to turn dry and patchy under their feet. They reach a clearing, a break between treelines, and Robby bounds up ahead but Tyler pauses, ears back. Any other time he’d follow. All the times in Juniors they’d run miles and miles at night and wake up in unfamiliar towns, having to Uber twenty miles back home. But now Tyler has a reason to go back. A reason to not get tangled in whatever barbed wire fences or shards of glass that he comes across. An important boy who’s going to sit awake on that deck with a lukewarm mug of coffee and an armful of blankets and a first-aid kit he won’t admit to having on hand, just in case. 

Robby trots back over and nibbles Tyler’s ear but when it’s clear the taller wolf won’t budge Robby huffs a sigh, rubs his head under Tyler’s chin against his throat. 

The moon has started to go down by the time they make it back to the lakehouse, the exhaustion of being human starting to edge back into both their heads by the time they make it back to the lawn. Mo is snoozing on a lawnchair with a mostly-empty beer bottle hugged to his chest, a plate of rare porkchop scraps on the ground near the stairs. Dylan is still awake because he always is. The tinny sound of hockey replays on his phone that he’s crouched over, still sitting on the step they left him on hours ago. 

Tyler lets out a soft bark and Dylan looks up from his phone, smiles. He stands and comes down to the grass, wearing a blanket like a cape around his shoulders. He crouches and opens his arms. 

Tyler trots over and buries himself into Dylan’s embrace, stilling his excited wiggling long enough for Dylan to check him over. Soft palms running over Tyler’s ribs, down his legs. Grasping briefly at his paws before giving him a scratch behind his ear. “Missed you,” he says and Tyler licks his palm. Presses his side hard against Dylan’s calves before bounding up the stairs and launching himself into Mo’s laugh, who wakes with a yelp.

Mo wraps his arms around Tyler and keeps him in his lap on the lawnchair and they watch Robby approach Dylan. He’s more cautious, tail and head low and Dylan moves at a glacial pace, hands spread wide so Robby can see all of his movement as he takes care to check the wolf over and then backs up a step. Holds out an open palm. “Heya, Fabs.”

Robby’s ears perk up and he sneaks a casual lick to the inside of Dylan’s wrist before he turns his attention to the plate of scraps, ears perked forward as he settles onto the ground with a bone. 

Mo tightens his grip on Tyler and stands up, the sudden height making Tyler struggle against his grasp so hard that Mo dumps Tyler at Dylan’s feet. “Pup,” Dylan greets him, stepping around Tyler to open the sliding door to the house. “You tired?”

Tyler tries to be on his best behavior when he follows Dylan into the house but he still surely leaves dirty pawprints on the rugs on their way back to the guest room. Tyler sits at the edge of the bed hesitantly when Dylan crawls in, kicking free the tightly tucked sheets. Dylan snaps and Tyler takes it as permission to jump up. Tries not to feel self-conscious when he spins in a tight circle ten or fifteen times before finally curling into a tight ball, resting his muzzle on Dylan’s thigh with an exasperated sigh. Dylan settles a palm at the top of his head, thumbing over the patch of dark fur between Tyler’s ears. 

Tyler wakes clutching Dylan’s hoodie to his chest and buried deep under the blankets. The space next to him is empty. Before Tyler even has time to miss him the door clicks open, Dylan balancing two cups of coffee in one hand with the lid tucked under his chin. A double dark chocolate mocha for Tyler, steaming and warm and Dylan crawls back into bed. Reaches over and tugs lightly at Tyler’s bed-mussed hair, pulling him down to rest his head on Dylan’s chest and Tyler inhales deeply, oranges and sandalwood. His whole heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> im always tweeting because i can never shut up @misconductchirp


End file.
